Seven For a Secret by Judy Astley Page B

the stopovers – he had never before overlapped work sex with home sex. Really, he knew quite well and with delicious guilt, this sort of thing should stop. There shouldn’t
be
a double life. I’m too old, he thought, glancing in the mirror and trying to decide which was his best side as he filled the kettle. There were deep lines running from the edge of his nose to his jaw. The grained-in tan that went with his job was beginning to look falsely tawdry; the view in the mirror was like unexpectedly seeing an ageing television presenter in real life, whose off-duty face still has studio pancake unevenly plastered over it, and powdery hair. He looked all right at work, the uniform demanded an effort at glamour: the passengers expected it still, even in these blasé days, needing to feel they were being flown by someone more super-human than an airborne taxi-driver. Hughie was too new in the flight crew to look anything more than Home Counties pale, and was still tending to be quietly nervous with the passengers. Tom was far more used to hearty, confident stewards swanning like Julian Clary up and down the aisle, competing for giggles from the passengers. (‘Silly me, you weren’t the chicken were you, far too
bovine
. Another juicy big steak here please, Carol!’) They hid behind the bulkhead, greedily gobbling too much of the plastic food and then complained about putting on weight. Tom didn’t like that; the whole desirable point about their bodies was the skinny hardness of them. The moment they went soft and girlish, he had no interest. Hughie had a body so slender that, exposed to Holiday Inn air conditioning, it went as goose-fleshy as newly plucked poultry. Even in the hottest climate, his shivery body distrusted the luxury of the sun. Tom, lazing away a Hong Kong afternoon on a lounger, had watched enthralled as Hughie dipped a wary toe into the waters of the hotel lagoon, as if fully expecting the disheartening chill of an English municipal outdoor pool. Experienced crew never did that – they knew full well that you got what the airline paid for, and were confident that they would always plunge into at least 80 comfortable degrees.
    When the phone did finally ring, Tom felt a startled panic, like a teenager longing for a first-love’s call. He skittered nervously across the hall rug, chased by the yapping Jasper, rushing in case Heather or Delia got there first, and wondered who on earth Hughie was, had they met him, was he local, was it work – all the usual women’s questions.
    â€˜Oh you’re home!’ Margot trilled into his ear.
    â€˜I live here, Margot,’ Tom reminded her patiently.
    â€˜Not often you don’t. Always arrivals and departures.’
    â€˜Goes with the job—’
    â€˜Yes, I know, I’m sorry. We always seem to have this conversation, don’t we? Anyway I’m glad you’re here, tomorrow is party time and I’d like you all to come. Children too, seeing as it’ll be outdoors mostly, weather permitting, of course, as usual in England. Been meaning to do this ever since Russell had that barbecue thing built out by the pool, and of course we’ve got our house guest and lots of interesting people for you . . .’
    Tom thought it sounded as if Margot intended to cook the house guest along with all the interesting people. He imagined them threaded on skewers, separated by the tools of their trade: musical instruments, easels, cameras, books, Formula One racing cars like hunks of lamb alternated with onions, tomatoes and mushrooms. Margot was still in full flow, having moved on to describe the seductive warmth of her pool and how wonderful the garden was looking (thanks to Heather). He interrupted. ‘Margot, we’d love to come, but we’ve also got Heather’s mother—’
    â€˜Oh do bring her! All the Parish Council Committee are coming, I’m sure they’ll have lots in